


Table Top

by crushcandles



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Humiliation, M/M, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: “And how many bodies?”The old feeling, held back by hundreds of years of training, starts to slither out of the cracks in Nicky's self-control. He tries to ignore it, how it makes his stomach turn and his jaw tick."Ten," he tells the table.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 3
Kudos: 65





	Table Top

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on tumblr asking for some Joe/Nicky humiliation play.

“How many bullets?”

Nicky looks down at the table. It’s an old thing, the stain wearing off in the places plates have been, covered in knicks from knives. When he puts his hands on it, it tips a little toward him, one of the legs a little short.

“I don’t know,” Nicky says. He doesn’t look up. Keeps looking at his old hands on the old table. Across the table from him, a knuckle raps on the wood. Nicky feels the vibration travel through the wood and into his palms. 

“Yes, you do. How many bullets, Nico?”

Nicky runs a fingernail through a gouge in the wood. His nail fits perfectly, like it and the table were made for each other.

“A hundred and fifty-seven,” he says. 

“And how many bodies?”

The old feeling, held back by hundreds of years of training, starts to slither out of the cracks in Nicky's self-control. He tries to ignore it, how it makes his stomach turn and his jaw tick.

"Ten," he tells the table. 

"Mmm. That's sloppy, isn’t it?" the voice across the tables asks. It's the voice from almost all of Nicky's memories and many of his dreams. Usually, it's kind and loving. But right now, the voice is full of disgust, as if he's a worm, and not one worth saving. 

Nicky screws up his mouth so it won't tremble. "I tried."

"Did you?" Across the table, a chair scrapes back over the warped linoleum of the safehouse kitchen. The sound echoes through the house, a reminder of how alone they are, no thanks to Nicky. 

Boots on the linoleum. Nicky keeps his eyes on his hands on the wood. He wonders if they'll eat here later. If he'll sit in this seat again, put his plate here where his hands are. If he'll look across the table then. 

At the very edge of Nicky's vision, a hip comes to rest against the table. A hand rests on the wood, next to the gouge. Next to Nicky's hand. Dark knuckles, clean nails, an artist's wrist.

"Do you think you deserve a reward for trying?" The thumb of the hand finds the gouge, passing over it in the kind of small caress it might touch Nicky's knuckles with. 

The shame is trickling into Nicky's stomach now, filling it. His mouth is dry but he manages to swallow the mouthful of saliva he somehow has in it anyway. His eyes are hot. 

"No," he says. 

"Mmm," again. Approving this time. "Too bad. It's a pleasure to reward you. You're denying us both." 

The disapproval in the voice fills Nicky's ears like poison, finds the back of his throat, slides down to join the terrible feeling in his stomach. 

He clears his throat and turns his hands, palms up in penitence. "Sorry."

The thumb resting over the gouge in the table lifts, finds the centre of Nicky's palm instead. Circles over the place a nail would go, if one was so inclined. Usually, Nicky would curl his fingers around the thumb, maybe pull the hand up to his mouth to kiss. Now, he leaves his hand open.

"I know you are." The thumb stops caressing Nicky's palm. The nail of it digs into the thin skin of his palm, driving so deep Nicky's fingers twitch involuntarily and his vision goes blurry. When the thumb lifts, there's a red mark there. It's gone by the time Nicky blinks his vision clear again, but he remembers the sting and will for a while. 

The hand leaves Nicky's and the hip leaves the table. The boots go behind Nicky's chair, fingers easing between Nicky's shoulders and the backrest. 

A mouth comes close to Nicky's ear, breathing once, drawing it out, and then says, "Up. Elbows on the table."

Maybe it's the breath, or the words, or the knuckles digging into the tense muscles of Nicky's back, but something about that startles him. He flinches.

"Why?" he asks. He's not sure what language he says it in, but he recognizes the thin whininess of his tone and feels his throat heat.

The hands on the chair pull on it, lifting it, tipping it forward. 

"Because," Joe says, his mouth still against Nicky's ear, "I won't believe you're sorry until I see it."

Nicky squeezes his eyes closed, his hands into fists. Under the table, he clamps his thighs together, as if that will stop the heaviness gathering between them. He whimpers. 

Thankfully, Joe gives Nicky a moment for the feeling to sweep over him before he starts tipping the chair again. Still, Nicky slips off the seat and has to catch himself with both forearms on the table. Joe removes the chair entirely, so he's half crouching over the table that rocks forward with his weight, until the short leg catches it. 

"Fix the posture," Joe says chidingly. "And _show me_."

Nicky's too tall for bending over this table to be comfortable at all, but especially not like this, elbows down, back hunched, legs too close together. 

"Can I?" he asks. "My hands?"

"Fine, but be quick about it."

Nicky knows better than to stand up, and besides, his stomach feels much too full of arousal and humiliation for him to straighten up. He keeps his chest low to the table, but spreads his legs so he can arch his back and get his hands underneath himself. 

Undoing the button on his jeans is like unlocking a safe he’s never seen before blindfolded. Joe doesn’t comment on his fumbling, but Nicky feels the weight of his eyes, hears the _tch_ sound in his throat. 

The button finally gives after an eternity. Nicky pops it, clawing at the zipper, humiliated by his ineptitude with such a simple task. He won’t be able to get his jeans all the way off without moving, but he manages to scrape them and his briefs down his hips, over his ass and halfway down his thighs without too much trouble. He puts his hands back down on the table.

“Aren’t you missing something?” Joe asks from somewhere above him. 

Nicky starts shaking his head and is interrupted by a finger on his back, hooking under his t-shirt, pulling it up a few inches.

“Oh,” he says, burning.

“I’ve got it,” Joe says, disappointed again. He pulls Nicky’s shirt up until it hits the barrier of Nicky’s armpits and bunches there, leaving him exposed from shoulders to knees.

“Thank you,” Nicky whispers, hanging his head so he can only either look the table or his own bare body, his soft belly and his cock, hard in spite of – because of – what’s happening to him. 

“You’re welcome,” Joe says mildly, stroking over Nicky’s back contemplatively. This is the worst thing of all, him touching Nicky like this as he decides what to do while Nicky drowns in his own needy shame, bent over this worn old table, his body just as common and cheap.

**Author's Note:**

> For more snippets, I'm on tumblr: [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/)


End file.
